The
Hash

Pity poor TT2. He had
to park his precious Mercedes among the rest of the hoi polloi with
all the paint scraping apprehension that went with it. He needn’t
have worried. Old Fart was the likeliest paint scraper and he parked
right next to me. I think it was the fact that he roared in to the
parking space backwards about a millimetre from my car that had Billy
and Shitfor hopping from foot to foot, flapping their arms about.

Behind us in a small
paddock next to the pub garden were some creatures that had both
males and females cooing and wanting to stroke them. There was a
lovely, gentle, friendly white donkey and two of the smallest
Shetland ponies we have ever seen. Lovely animals. I looked around
the members of the Hash. There were very few that I wanted to stroke.

Since our regular GM
was laying the Trail tonight Shitfor stepped in and performed the
welcoming role. I had always thought (backed up by his agreement)
that Slowsucker occasionally wielded the vocal bludgeon but tonight’s
surrogate GM pulled on the big boots, picked up a Goliathan club and
battered the Circle into submission firstly with a somewhat
disrespectful limerick about our outgoing GM that ended with a word
that rhymed with ‘sucker’. Then rather embarrassed the
two boys of the new family that had joined us tonight by laying bare
their lineage and their mother’s relationship with her partner.
It had a similar effect on the audience as someone farting in the
Queen’s presence. Certainly it was a tour de force and
we marvelled at the audacity of the fellow. However, prior to this he
gave us a potted history of The Horns 16th century pub
that was quite interesting and possibly true.

We On Outed. The
runners and long-distance walkers one way. Bogbrush, JWax, NoSole and
I, led by Swallow in a rather nice pair of shorts, the other. Our
walking wounded group stepped lively onwards since we were due to
meet up with the runners at some point. Our confluence was to be
later than I thought although we could tell where they were as we
stumped into the sticky earth of the forest by listening out for the
calls of ‘On On’ somewhere to our left. As usual,
Iceman’s blood-freezing bellow-cum-yodel was the main sound
that bounced off the mighty oaks and slid through the saplings. We
stomped quietly on, determined not to reveal our position. Just then
we came across a little well with a portico emblazoned with a picture
and words Rebecca and the servant of Abraham written thereon. Jwax
and I stopped to inspect it while the others disappeared rapidly. It
took five minutes to catch up with the racing trio. I figured it
would be best to get ahead and skipped lightly across a couple of
Checks, getting it right both times. But, of course, just as one
begins to believe in one’s own cleverness Fate takes a hand.
This time it was a Bar-6. I stonked back to meet NoSole and Bogbrush
who had lost Swallow and Jwax and were scratching their heads over a
small and clearly marked map that was proving no help to them at all.
At least we had the pleasure of watching FRB Rampant as he skipped
lightly past our grinning selves, uttering a self-pleased, “Everyone
less is miles behind.” Then skipped back from the Bar-6 having
learned the same lesson as I had a little earlier.

We
backtracked to where the Trail went off into the splintery underfoot
woods and followed Caboose, Posh, Donut and Diver who were yapping
away twenty to the dozen as we crackled downhill. There were a number
of 2-Way Checks and others that confused the Pack and enabled us
walkers to meet up with them time and again. We were even overtaken
by BGB at one place.

After several miles of
tramping with NoSole and Bogbrush we came up to Swallow and
Slowsucker in a field where a herd of young bulls had gathered
without their permission. Swallow asked me how I was with bullocks,
which I felt was a tad personal. Mrs Blobby, Utopia and OldDog had
caught us up and there was a minor amount of concern before we saw
the herd hoofing off into the next field. Curious, but it saved us
having to run like hell. It turned out that JWax was standing by a
gate in the other field offering her map to the inquisitive beeves
who had gathered round. On the shortish walk that led us over a road
and through a dusky snicket we met TC and Cerberus who had foolishly
gone way down a False Trail. A quick trot and we were back. Unlike
Zebedee who had arrived at the start rather late and didn’t
appear until the end of the Down Downs.

And now a new occasional feature. We all need a little
advice now and again and the Gobsheet has secured the services of
Aunt Betty, a lady of wide experience who has not always given her
services for free. I’m sure you will find her guidance
interesting, informative and perhaps a little challenging. If you
have a problem ask Aunt Betty.

Dear Aunt Betty. I have a fat leg and am unable to run
on the Hash. This is very distressing. What should I do about it?

Dear Limpalong. Frankly it’s better to have a fat
leg than a fat lip and much more whinging is likely to earn you the
latter, along with a shiner. If it doesn’t look like a leg on a
billiard table consider yourself ahead. I do hope the rest of the
losers who write in aren’t as much of a pain as you.

Our thanks to tonight’s
Hares for laying an thoroughly enjoyable Trail and laying on a fine
pub.

On On. Hashgate.

Down
Downs

RA Old Dog presented the following
while Slowsucker handed out nomination forms for committee positions
at the forthcoming AGM. Nappy Rash asserted that he’d like to
get Shitfor down in any position...